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Miscellaneous. DIVINE IMPRESS. Ther‘s not a tint that paints the rose, Or ileckß the lily fair, Or streak- the humblest flow r that grows liut heaven has placed it there. At early dawn there‘s not a gale, Across the landscape drivn, And not a breeze that sweeps the vale, That is not sent by lieav'n. There s not of grass a single blade, Or leaf of lowest mien, Win ce heavenly skill is not displayed. And heavenly wisdom seen. * Therc‘s not a tempest dark and dread, Or storms that rends the air, Or blast, that sweeps o‘er ocean‘3 bed, But heaven's own voice is there. Therms not a star, whose twinkling light, Illumines the distant earth; And cheers the solemn gloom of night, But mercy gave it birth. There s not a cloud whose dews distil Upon the parching clod, And clothes with verdue, vale and hill. That is uut sent by God. There‘s not a place in earth's vast round In ocean, deep, or air, Whore, skill and wisdom are not found, For God is every where. Around, beneath, below, above, Whei ev-r space extends, There he tv‘u displays its bc uudless love. And power with mercy blends. THE BURIAL. A Fragment. !t was summer. The sun shone proudly down upon the gay mist that rose above the billows—the btusliiu'r charms of spring were passed, and the summer glow of loveliness had sue cceded, Tl.o woodlands were gay and beautiful—for nature had clothed them in all her surpassing splendours. The mountain stream now ran, now t ippled, now curling with its silver ed dies, glad sparkling in the sun-beam— now smoothly fl \vt and among its ever varying bed, towards its quiet home *• in the world of waters.” The birds warbled as sweetly in their green bowers of bliss, as if sighs and tears were unknown. There was j y on earth.—The twit tering swallow, as if darted along in sunshine ami shade, ceded not the bitter wailings of filiation and dis tress—the wild bird in its noiseless flight, sußly silent as falls the snow. 11 tkr, seemed unmindful of wo, as it Hashed iss wi g across the vision, like a thought of a dream during the hush ed hours of midnight, and vanished as suddenly. To me, the sight of their joyous felicity brought no gladness— the sounds of their mirth fell cold upon the heart—if seemed but bitter mock ery: and spoke o$ clays departed. Tbc bright and laughing skies seemed in netisible that they were smiling over ruin aul decay; that hue of hope's fairest, sweetest fl;\vera, had drooped ui.d died; and that row—even now was to be laid in the earth's cold bo som. 1 had seen the child in its guileless Feauty, when it was a thing all glow- 1 iug with health, innocence, and joy —| had. seen it folded in the arms of her! that bore it, io all the overwhelming lnnuitc.Hß of a mother's love. But now , , burn blessing— her first, last, i , on, J’*l*pt- iot t , the soft! bosom ot a mother's tenderness—but with the quiet dead J Death, deatk < how lovely canfit thou be] Though pale ant! lit. less, it wuie a smile pas* shiftless aud pure, as the cherub ,f im mortality— j- had nothing of the grave —hut its silence. So beautiful it seemed-libe the sportive lamb, decked with a flowery garland for the sacri fice, l could fain have laid down by its side in the cold bosom of our common mother, in the dark and silent valley. Thou weepest, childless mother— ah, well thou mayest—the son of God wept at the tomb of his friend—and thou roournest thy first-born. Hard it is for thee to lay thy loved one low in the damp earth—beneath the cold clods of the valley—hard it is to re tie t that this, thy child of peerless beauty, will never more raise its rosy lips to thine, in all the fondness of childhood's warm affection. Ah! these are recollections that weigh upon the soul, even to overpowering. * Memory tells thee thou art desolate—it tells too, of play ful of a thousand soft and winning ways that twine a round the mother's bosom—it tells of the sweet, wild throbbings of bliss that were thine when softly soothing it to slumber aud repose. Now the foilage of the cypress will be its shelter; and the narrow’ house its abiding place— the nursery will uo more resound with its gladsome mirth—the cradle in which it had so often reposed iu quiet is now desolate. Thou weepest child less mother. The last look. The time is come she may gaze once more upon her sleep ing boy, ere the pall is settled upon his life! ess brow. Oh, the bitter ago ny of that moment—one long burning kiss upon his marble brow, and he is shut from her view. In the fullness of her grief she says, No more, rny baby, shalt thou lie, Withdrowsey smile, and half-shuteye— Pillowed upon thy mothers breast, Serenely sinking into rest. For God hath laid thee down to sleep, Like a pure pearl beneath the deep! Look abroad, fond mother, upon the ways of sinful men, and repine no more that God hath made thy child an ai gel in the regions of bliss. Now iiis song mingles with the thanksgiv ing ot the blest! sanctified, safe, and secure Irma the stormy blasts of mi quity, with him who is from everlast ing ! The long train of weeping friends gathered round a fresh dug grave. ‘The collin was lowered into its final resting place, in the vale of solitude aud silence—the spirit of him who was so lovely here had, long ere this, crossed the dark waters—and is safe ly landed upon the flowery cost of a world of fadeless bloom ! HUSBANDS AND WIVES. We are glad to wee something like good sense in the maxims given rela tive to the treatment that husbands and wives should observe towards each other. In nearly all the sage sayings on this subject, the wife is regarded as a sort of domestic uten sil. a kind of dependant, who has nothing to do but comb the children’s heads, (taking rare not to comb her husband’s) cook the dinner to a turn for his surly lordship, receive him with smiles, though he is ever so crab bid, and make a low courtsey anda “ thank you Sir,” if he condescends to give her a look that would sour more, cream than a thunder gust. The gentleman has nothing to do hut (old his arms, and suffer his wife to busy herself in pleasing him. He is to ki< k over the inoppuil when he pleases, upset the tea table When it suits liis humour, keep his wife up all night to receive him with smiles when he comes staggering home from his clubs, and the poor lady is to take all the hi ame of his being a disagreeable, discontented, mulish fellow, if after all her patience sho cannot succeed in making any thing of him.— Ills high time this Turkish doctrine was explo ded. The husband has duties to perform to make home agreeable, as well as the wife, lie should consult her happiness quite as much -bs she does his, and make as many sacrifices in her behalf. It is true, the husband often requires to be honored to prevent him from acting the brute, because there are an hundred good wives where there is one good husband; and a sensible woman, if she be cursed with such a yoke follow, will strive, for her own sake, and that of her children, to soften down his asperities. But we like not this doctrine which imposes the whole task of making home happy upon the female. It seems to sanction the conduct of the hus band who makes no effort to perform his part, and to furnish him an apolo gy for indulging in ill temper, and then blaming his wife for not making him good natured. In the following, from the U. S. Ga zette, we find some advice on this to pic iu exact accordance with our one views; Rules for Husbands . 1. A good husband will always re gard his wife as his equal, treat her with kinduess, respect, and attention, and never address her with an air of authority, as if she were, as some husbands appear to regard their wives, a mere housekeeper. 2. He will never interfere in her domestic concerns, hiring servants, &c. &r. 3 He will cheerfully and promptly comply with all her reasonable re quests, when it can be done without loss, or great inconvenience* 4 He will never allow himself to lose his temper towards her, by in. different cookery, or irregularity in the hour of meals, or any other mismanagement of her servants, knowing the difficulty of making them do their duty 3. If she have prudence aud good sense, he will consult her on all great operations involving the risk of ruin, or serious injury in the case of failure Many a man has been rescued from rum by the wise counsels of his wife. Many a foolish husband has most se riously injured himself and family by the rejection of the advice of his wife, fearing last if he followed it he should be regarded as ruled by her. A husband can never procure a counsel lor more deeply interested in his wel fare than his wife. 6 If distressed or embarassed in his circumstances, he will communi cate liis situation to her with Can dor, that she may bear his difficui ties iu mind, in her expenditures. Women sometimes, believing theii husband’s circumstances to be far better than they really are, expend money which cannot well be afforded and which if they knew their real sit uation, they would shrink from expen ding* Rules for Wives’ 1. A good wife will always receive her husband with smiles—leaving no thing undone to render home agreea ble—and gratefully reciprocate his kindness and attention. 2 She will study to discover means to gratify his inclination, in regard to food and cookery; in the management of her family; in her dress manners, and deportment, 3. She will never attempt to rule, or appear to rule her husband* Such conduct degrades husbands-and wives always partake largely of the degra dation of their husband. 4. She will in every thiyg reaso nable comply with his wishes—and as far as possible anticipate them. 5. She will avoid all altercations or arguments leading to ill-humor— and more especially before company. 6 She will never attempt to interfere in his business, unless he ask her ad vice or counsel, and will never attempt to control him in the management of it. Should difference arise between bus baud and wife the contest ought to be, not who will make the first advances. There is scarcely a more prolific source of unhappiness in the married state, than this ‘spirit, 9 the legitimate offspring of pride and want of feeling. Perhaps the whole art of happiness in the married state, might be com prised in these two maxims—" Bear and forbear—and let the husband treat hie wife, and the wile treat her husband with as much respect at:? attention as he would a strange l*d, and as she would a strange geuiit. man. BITTER SWEET. J 1 certain cure for drinking Liquors . Take two ounces of the flour of consideration. Dissolve a pint ofihe spirit of seif denial;, then add one quart of the juice of resolution to it. Shake i; well together'—then put it ir.ro the golden bowl, (memory.) if the golden bowl be not broken —then sweeten it with the cou gar of high reputation. A dram of these bitters nay be taken often as the appetite craves strong drink. A larger portion of juice may be added if ncccs. saryy and if one bowl full should not perfect a cure, it must he filled up again with the same kind. The longer one takes those bitters, die less bitter will they taste.—They have been found by most who have used them, very beneficial to the conscience as well as the body. Old Parr, who lived until till age 103 years, gave this advice —Keep your head cool by tem perance, your feet warm by ex ercise, rise early, and go soot to bed, and if you are inclined to get fat. keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. Levity is often less foolish, and gravity less wise, than each of them appear. If thou buvest tine books on ly to set up in the closet, and never readest them, thou wilt be like a man that getteth in nice provisions and never cats, them. An attorney in the country, advertises for a lad that can write n legible hand and read il legible writings. Two very honest gentlemen who dealt in brooms, meeting one day in the street, one asked the other, how the devil ho could afford to undersell hi: 4 every where he did, when he stole the stuff’, and made the brooms himself? Why, you silly dog, answered the other, / steal them alieadij made . A tailor is the ninth part of & man, said a would-be-wit in the presence of a knight 01 the shears. But, replied the taylor, a fool is no part at all, MUDDY WIT. A black servant, not a hun dred miles from St, Andrews, being examined in the Church Catechism by the minister of the Parish, was asked, ‘What are you made of jack?’ he said ‘of mud, massa.’ On being told he should say of dust, he repli ed, ‘No, massa. it no do, nr stick togedder *